What if he had only kissed her out of boredom?
What if a man could kiss a woman yet also despise her and consider her desperately beneath him?
What if her foolish—and false—bragging about kissing half a dozen Swiss lads during her escape from finishing school had persuaded him that she hadn’t any virtue?
The questions went on and on.
And on.
Addy took a deep, fortifying breath and, raising her hand, poised to knock at last.
Her insidious mind, however, refused to allow her a reprieve. It started whirling anew with a fresh round of questions.
What if her presence at his bedroom this late at night would horrify him?
What if?—?
The door suddenly opened, halting all further thought. For a moment, she could do nothing more than stare at the sight of Marchingham in a dark silk dressing gown. Her breath caught in her lungs. She, who prided herself on never faltering or lacking an opinion, stood speechless in the hall, admiring the lamplight’s gilded glints in his wavy hair. Their gazes clashed and held.
“Miss Fox.” His brows drew together, his confusion apparent. “Is something amiss?”
“Addy,” she blurted.
He continued to stare, his expression inscrutable.
She took another deep breath. “I wish you would call me Addy, not Miss Fox.”
He was the first to blink. “That would be far too familiar of me.”
“More familiar than your mouth on mine?” she countered, summoning all the bravado she possessed. “I hardly think so.”
Marchingham said nothing. He simply stood there in his dressing gown, looking unfairly handsome. Looking perfect. Not even a hair was out of place. He didn’t look like a man about to retire for the night. He looked like a gentleman about to attend a ball, if not for the dressing gown and his bare feet.
At the reminder that he wore no shoes, her gaze slipped to the floor. His feet were long and large and not at all hairy like Papa’s were. In fact, they were quite lovely, as far as feet were concerned. Not that Addy was a foot connoisseur, that was. But she could now say with unhesitating certitude that the Duke of Marchingham’s feet were every bit as handsome as the rest of him.
“I have been remiss,” Marchingham began.
“Do you like kissing me?” she asked at the same time.
He swallowed, and because she had wrested her gaze back to his face, she tracked the bob of his Adam’s apple, fascinated by how masculine his throat was. How she longed to lay her lips there. To kiss his neck as he had hers that day in the snowy garden. To taste his skin as she had his mouth.
“That is hardly the sort of question a lady ought to ask a gentleman,” he pointed out, his voice low and smooth.
He didn’t sound shocked or scandalized or even displeased. Rather, he sounded intrigued.
“We have already established that I’m not a lady.” She drew upon her mettle, summoning her sunniest smile. “And I take note that you haven’t provided me with an answer either.”
A lone brow rose. “I am certain you already have your answer.”
Did he truly think she would allow him to escape her with such ease this time? Addy knew him by now.
She shook her head. “I want to hear it from you.”
The air hung heavy with portent. Addy couldn’t shake the feeling that no moment in her life would ever compare to this one. One wrong word, one false step, and Marchingham would run from her again. He would likely retreat into his bedroom and bar the door, not emerging until he saw the back of her heading down the approach to Marchingham Hall.
Something shifted in his expression, the sternness fading, his jaw relaxing. “I shouldn’t enjoy it.”
“But you do,” she pressed.
